Martha Costello QC
by madaboutalice123
Summary: Everyone has a secret. Martha's is small and unexpected. CHAPTER TWO FIXED AND NOW UP!
1. Chapter 1

A/N - I seem to be on a bit of a crazy roll with Silk stories currently, so here is another offering. I'm not sure if this one will be any longer than this - it would be great if you let me know what you think!  
Enjoy! x

Martha tapped a pen against her lip, chewing the end of the biro absentmindedly as she considered the file in front of her.

"What happened?" Clive asked, pausing at her desk as he crossed the room.

"Hmm?" She looked up, "Sorry, what?"

"Your wrist," he indicated, "What happened?"

A gauzy white pad was taped to the inside of her left wrist, her silver watch was absent.

"Oh, nothing much," Martha flicked said wrist, "Just a burn. You know I'm awful in the kitchen".

He smiled, she was right, "Fair enough. Is it ok? Not getting nasty or anything?"

"It's fine," she nodded at him, "Cold water, cream and keeping it covered. I think I can look after it".

Clive sat down at his desk, "Just checking".

It was a routine they had fallen into; Friday evening drinks after the others had left, staying in the pub together, a little bubble of their own. No interruptions, no colleagues. Sometimes it was talking about work, buoying each other up or celebrating, sometimes it was about everything else and sometimes it was just quiet companionship.

They sat side by side, he had moved next to her after CW and Billy had left, slightly squashed together in the narrow corner booth.  
As she picked up her glass he noticed her watch slip slightly down her arm beneath her sleeve and reveal a patch of skin covered by a rectangular plaster.  
"How's the burn?" He asked.  
Martha looked away before answering, "Oh, yeah. Uh, it's fine, thanks".  
He caught a pink tinge rise up her cheeks when she spoke, noticed how she couldn't quite meet his eyes.  
"Really? Let me see".  
She kept hold of the wine glass, resting it against her cheek so her hand wasn't on the table, "So you're a doctor now, are you?"  
He rolled his eyes, "Don't be stupid Mar. I only want to see it. You've had something stuck over it for ages".

Very slowly she took another drink, put her glass down on the table and held her arm out, wrist facing down.  
He reached for her, intrigued and slightly concerned, and brushed her fingers with the tips of his before reaching for her cuff. Carefully he undid the buttons on her cuff and folded back the starched, white material. Holding her fingers, he turned her hand over and undid the clasp on her watch, letting it drop into his other hand before placing it on the table.  
His thumb brushed over the plaster and he gently touched one fingernail to the edge.  
She flinched as he did so and he stopped to look up at her. There was a strange expression on her face; apprehension, maybe guilt and a flicker of something he couldn't place. Her teeth had caught on her lower lip and she couldn't quite meet his gaze.  
As his fingers resumed their gentle picking at the edge of the plaster, she spoke, quietly but forcefully, "Don't...don't _judge_".  
Clive nodded but didn't speak.

Martha winced as the plaster slowly lifted from the delicate skin. He was gentle but it was going to hurt a little.  
As he carefully peeled the fabric plaster away he waited for the burn to appear. He almost expected a different injury.  
What he didn't expect was something black. Glistening, italic black letters standing out against her pale skin. For a moment he stared, eyes drawn to the script, then looked to her face.  
Her gaze was fixed on her wrist, as though she was looking at it for the first time. The letters were small, each one about the size of his thumbnail, with a tiny dot after each one. Perfectly italic, the tails faded away from the thicker main lines on the two letters.

Q.C.

Clive still held her hand; his fingers underneath the back, thumb resting in her palm, and lifted it towards him. He bent his head and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist.  
"It's perfect Marth".  
She smiled then, and he repeated the action before looking at her. She met his gaze and held it. He wanted to ask her about it; when, where, who with, why did she lie, why did she hide it? He knew he couldn't jump straight in, she had been reluctant enough to show him anyway, and instead said, "What are you up to this weekend then?"

There was a pause before she answered, a heavy silence that meant something but he couldn't decipher quite what. He was still holding her hand; knew that that, and his previous action meant something.  
"Recovering".  
"Recovering from what?" He asked, the question was innocent enough.  
"From the amount of wine you buy me tonight. And whatever we do after that," Martha replied.  
Her meaning was clear.

She pulled her hand from his and picked up her glass, draining the liquid and replacing it on the table.  
"Well?" She raised an eyebrow, "You playing?"  
He swallowed. Half their relationship was built on flirting, sometimes spilling over into more, but it was usually him who pushed the boundaries.  
"Playing for what?"  
Her eyebrow dropped, smile disappeared, she didn't often look so serious outside of work, "For keeps".

For a moment he considered her, what she had said and what she meant. To him, she was easy to read, easy to understand, it was a talent he had perfected over fifteen years. She had never taken it this far before and he had never known her say something she didn't completely mean or believe.

"I'm in," he answered, shifting and taking his wallet from his pocket, "For the long run".  
He pushed his wallet towards her and nodded towards the bar.  
Martha took the item and flipped it open. She made it look as though it was natural, as though it was partly hers, he thought. This wasn't mad, Clive realised, this was exactly what came next. It wasn't _playing_, it was _keeps_ that was the point of the game, and they had been playing long enough.  
She slid a card from his wallet and looked at him, questioning in silence as she ran a finger over the edges.  
One shoulder, up and down, "Whatever you want," he said.  
She slipped down the bench and stood up, moving through the crowds with practised ease.  
His eyes followed her. She was wearing stilettos.

Two fresh glasses and a bottle of red appeared in his vision, a body in the space next to him.  
Slightly surprised she hadn't picked something stronger, he turned the bottle to read the label. It was something they didn't drink often, usually reserved for celebrations.  
"I started a tab," she said as she dropped back into the seat next to him.  
He nodded, poured the wine and touched his glass to hers, "For keeps".  
Martha smiled and sipped the wine, then turned so she was half facing him in their booth, "Go on then, I know you want to ask".  
She could read him as easily as he could her, but she still forced him to say things aloud. He usually answered her questions without her saying anything.

"Did you do it on a whim?" He wanted to know, she had never been the impulsive type.  
She shook her head, "No. It was there in my mind, I just needed a shove to make me do it. I was out for lunch with Lindsey, and she was just like, go for it. She came with me. It was last Saturday. It seems like it's been there forever, but also like it was yesterday".  
He smiled, "Who knew, Martha Costello, secret tattoo rebel".  
She laughed as he tugged at the collar of her shirt.  
"What else does the white shirt hide then?" he joked, fingers running down from her collar to the next button that was done up.  
"Wouldn't you like to know," Martha teased with a grin.  
He hummed, twitched his fingers to undo the button he was hovering over, "I think I would".

If he was surprised by her open flirting he didnt one to make light of her feelings. He had never been sure how she really felt about him, was aware that he had never really shown her his feelings either. There was flirting, teasing, friendship, care and respect on both sides, they both made that obvious, but there was something deeper and now she had shown him, he was happy to respond.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N - Hello!  
Thank you for reviews and things on this! I wasn't sure if I was going to make this any longer, but I've given it a go and I hope you like it. Give me a shout or review if you fancy it!  
Enjoy. A x  
-

Martha placed two short tumblers onto the table and slid back into their booth, pressing her thigh against his as she sat down. She handed his card to him, a receipt wrapped around it. He read it, nodded and stuffed both into the pocket of his suit jacket on the chair next to him.  
"Did you sign for it?" he asked, turning on an angle so they were slightly facing each other.  
She shook her head, "No, pin number. I couldn't fake your signature".  
"You know my pin?" Clive frowned and she laughed,  
"You've told me before. I hope you don't give it out to all the girls you drink with. Or at least, I hope they don't all have good memories".  
He sighed, "I have no idea when that was. And no, I don't give it out. You must be an exception".  
"I bloody hope so," Martha said.  
Clive picked up a drink, swirling the liquid before asking, "What's this then? Moved on from wine I see".  
She curled her fingers around the other glass, "It's just gin. And tonic".  
He drank, coughed and stared at her, "Jesus Marth! How strong is that?"  
"I only asked for a double," she defended herself, "Don't be dramatic".  
Her own glass brought the same reaction, and he laughed, "There. Serves you right. That's more than a double".  
She drank again, a bigger mouthful this time and managed not to choke on the alcohol. He matched her and soon enough both glasses were empty, save ice cubes and lemon.

"Now what?" Clive enquired, "You paid".  
She glanced at her wrist for her watch, before realising it was still lying on the table.  
He picked it up and fastened it around her wrist, fingers tracing over the tattoo as he kept hold of her hand. His touch was light, as though he was afraid to hurt her, and he slid his fingers over her hand to curl them around hers.  
Martha hesitated, watched their fingers for a moment, "There's a bar opposite my flat. It's not far to walk".  
Clive nodded, squeezed her fingers briefly before releasing her hand and standing up, "Alright".

Coats on, they edged their way to the door, his hand resting on her back as they moved through the busy pub. Once they were outside he took her hand as they started to walk, slipped her glove off and pocketed it so he could touch her skin, drawing patterns on the back of her hand. She shivered, partly from the cold and partly from his touch; wasn't sure how holding hands could seem more intimate and mean so much more than a hundred other things.  
They weren't strangers to each other; there had been drunken snogs, sober kisses, that one night in Nottingham and plenty of flirting from both of them. Martha had always been the more subtle one, just a look or quirk of her lips, the occasional comment; she was used to Clive doing the running and while he was very good at it, she was interested in something more than their usual flirting now. She had been surprised at how easily, readily, he had agreed to her veiled suggestions, unaware that he felt the same until she had seen the look in his eyes as he held her hand.

Each with another gin and tonic in hand they moved away from the bar and found a tall table to lean against, coats draped over a stool.  
The chatter and music was slightly too loud for them to talk easily and Clive bent his head to speak in her ear, finding her slightly taller than normal.  
He paused before speaking, changing what he had been about to say, "Since when do you wear stilettos?"  
She had always refused to 'tart up for court', as she had previously put it; heels yes - stilettos no, tight pencil skirt yes - halfway up her thigh no, slightly see-thru white shirt yes - too many buttons undone, no. Clive let his gaze wander over her, unashamed even as she watched him; higher heels, buttons he had undone on her shirt and perfect red lipstick. She didn't shy away from his gaze but met his eyes as they crept up to her face, although she hadn't answered his question yet. He knew she had initiated the evening so far, and he intended to keep letting her take the lead although it was getting harder when all he wanted to do was dip his head a little lower and kiss her. Clive had noticed the shoes earlier in the evening, she walked differently, and hadn't said anything, but he was intrigued by the change.  
Martha smiled enigmatically and didn't answer, picking up her glass to sip at the clear liquid and eyeing him over the rim.

"Why?" Clive asked.  
They were another gin and tonic down, standing so close to each other you could barely slide a piece of paper between them, and her hand was back in his.  
He tapped his thumb on her wrist, "I mean, you don't- "  
"It's ok," she cut off what could easily become a ramble, "It's a reminder. I know most people get a tattoo when they're young, then keep it even though they hate it, to remind themselves how they used to be and not to go back to that. But this is more like, I suppose it's to remind myself how far I've come, that I've actually achieved what I wanted. However rough or bad things seem, I made it, and that's what matters".  
Clive studied her as she picked up her glass and drank, avoiding his eyes she as had done when he first uncovered her wrist, "You've not told anyone that, have you?"  
She shook her head, "You're the only one who would ask".  
"I'm sorry," he said, squeezing her hand, holding on to her a little tighter.  
"Don't be. You don't need to apologise," Martha looked up again, "No one else knows, but they wouldn't ask anyway".  
"Is it a secret?" he asked.  
A smile turned up one corner of her mouth, head on one side, "Not really. It's not a very secretive place".  
He replied without thinking, "So where is?"  
"Secret, Clive," her smile widened, "Clue's in the name".  
He chuckled, "I thought we didn't have secrets, you and I".  
Annoyingly, he was right. Friends for fifteen years, since their first week at Shoe Lane, they were too close to keep things from each other; knew how to wheedle things out of each other and they didn't always need words.

She twisted their joined hands so their wrists pressed together, palms touching and fingers linked, "It's not a secret. It is where it is, and you've seen it".  
Clive kissed her fingers; working his way from her little finger across to her thumb, his lips feather-light. He placed a final kiss on the back of her hand and looked up at her, once again fighting the desire to press his lips against hers and kiss her until they were out of air. The way she held his gaze made him wonder if she knew exactly what he was thinking, her blue eyes could read everything behind his with a glance. She bit her lip, tugged his hand and tilted her head towards the door, "Shall we?"


End file.
